stuck on salutation
There I sat, watching the spacer blink in front of me, over and over and over again. I had a million things I wished to write and ask, but when the time came, I couldn't write a single word.
I was attempting to write a letter to my biological mother. My social worker had advised me to prepare a letter and a few photos to send in case she was open to communication.
How do I even start this letter, I wondered. Dear...mother? Mom? Or maybe just...hello? Nothing felt right or natural. Maybe I could just skip the salutation and dive right in. But then what do I dive into? My name is...? Do I use my American name or my Korean name? If I couldn't even begin the letter, how could I possibly complete it?
I rolled my chair back from my desk and sat with my thoughts for a while. I considered all the things I wanted to know. Why did she give me up? Did she know where my biological father was now? Did I have any half-siblings? Was she or anyone else in the family also a musician or a creative? What were my grandparents like? A series of questions I'd never been able to ask flooded out of me, but still I couldn't seem to make it past the salutation.
After a while, I rolled my chair back to my desk and wrote the only thing I knew I wanted to communicate: I’d like you to know, first and foremost, that I am okay. I have lived a fulfilling life, one filled with happiness, joy, and abundant love.
By the time I wrote the last word, I brought my hands to my face as tears came streaming down. I sobbed. It's all I could write.
I shut my laptop and got ready for bed.
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Just two weeks before this I had received an email from the Korean adoption agency, Holt Children's Services out of Seoul. I had emailed them a week prior to that to officially request my adoption file and review what they had on record. I'd been given my American adoption papers from my parents which included translations of everything, but had heard that it's better to coordinate with the Korean agency because sometimes there is conflicting or additional information that could have been lost in translation or omitted entirely.
My social worker advised me to begin working on a personalized letter when they sent the standard notification to my birth mother, the one that declared someone is looking for her. I contemplated starting it, but decided that I would wait. I didn't want to get my hopes up. I didn't want to pour my heart out into a letter to a person it may never reach, a person who may not care, or a person who may not respond. The letter quickly transformed into a metaphorical weapon, capable of inflicting the deepest, sharpest papercut on my bare skin, and so I responded with a natural aversion to it. I filled my to-do lists with groceries, errand runs, and important deadlines, but, "Write letter to birth mother," was never on it.
I'll wait. That's the safer thing to do.
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"You know, writing a letter may actually be a very good thing to do," Carolyn said with encouragement.
By this time, we had rolled back our sessions to monthly and were doing them remotely, so I spent the first ten minutes giving her an update on my progress with the search. Her soft nudge felt more like she was taunting me with a piece of paper, bringing it close to her skin, mimicking the quick slice of that inevitable papercut.
"I guess I'm just scared to write it. I don't...I don't want to get my hopes up," I responded.
"Yes, I understand," she said with a supportive smile. "But..." she continued, "maybe it's an opportunity to really consider all the things you've wanted to know. Sometimes the act of writing a letter to someone allows us to really see what we're looking for and what we want to share. You may even find that you'll understand more about how you feel in writing it, even if it's never sent or received." Carolyn looked at me for a long time while I sat there. I tried to imagine what it would be like to write the letter. If what she said was true, then maybe the letter wasn't a weapon, but instead a key to understanding more about well, everything.
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A few days after our session I sat down to write my letter. I attempted to keep the harrowing images of papercuts at bay while I forcefully pushed the cursor one letter at a time. My social worker advised me to only use my first name, so I began with the following: "My name is Nikia and I was born on March 14th, 1988 with the name Kil, Jee Yung. I am now thirty-two years old. "
I continued on and shared how my parents kept Yung in my American name to honor my birth mother's wishes. Yung meant prosperity and they felt it was important to my identity, so they chose it as my middle name. I thanked her for giving me that name and for giving me the opportunity to live up to that name.
I told her about the neighborhood I grew up in. I told her how it was safe and beautiful. How I spent my childhood outside climbing trees and playing violin. How I grew up with two brothers who protected me to the ends of the earth. How my mother was passionate, protective, and selfless in her love. And how my father was wise, diligent, and selfless in his love. I told her about my husband and step-daughter, and how I lived in Louisiana and where that was geographically in the United States. I told her that I'm now a songwriter and teacher. I shared my love for travel, nature, and adventure. I thanked her for giving me up for adoption and told her I was filled with immense gratitude for what she had done, and that I hoped it gave her peace. I asked about siblings and why she gave me up for adoption. I kept my first sentence though I altered it slightly to read: More than anything else, I’d like you to know that I am okay. I have lived a fulfilling life, one filled with happiness, joy, and abundant love.
Once I finished, I cried for the millionth time since starting this journey and realized that this letter was not a letter meant for me to share musings of my childhood. Its purpose wasn't meant to share anything at all nor was it a letter to ask and receive. Though I spent the better half of the letter doing just that, I realized that this was a letter of forgiveness. I never had to face the reality that somewhere in the depths of my core, in the canyon that rested between two ridges and the darkness that fell between each day, I felt an incomparable sadness and resentment. But, I also realized that however I felt...she must have felt ten fold, and that hurt even more. So writing thank you and echoing words of gratitude seemed like a small peace offering to the woman who gave me life. My letter was a forward-motion step in healing, in understanding, and in a belief that all of this had true purpose.
Even if they couldn't find my birth mother or she was unwilling to communicate, I understood that I needed to let go of the unnecessary weight I had been carrying for thirty-two years of my life. Writing this letter finally helped me see that. If they were able to find my birth mother and she was open to communication, I felt a tinge of relief knowing that at least my letter was prepared.
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The soft light crept through the hotel curtains as my husband and I slowly got out of bed. He retreated to the bathroom while I unlocked my cell phone to check my email. It was Oct. 5th and we were in Portland, Maine visiting friends. It was our last full day there and I was soaking up every minute of our lazy morning start.
"Can you look up places for breakfast?" I heard my husband ask, nearly incoherent because of the toothbrush still in his mouth.
"Sure," I responded as I scrolled through the junk and promotional emails, deleting them one-by-one as I do every other morning.
A few minutes had passed and my husband finished up in the bathroom and walked towards the bed. "Did you find anything yet?" he asked.
I looked up from my phone, tears in my eyes, and shook my head. "I just...got an email from my social worker. My birth mother has responded."
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